


Cell Block Tango

by Chad Warwick (FanficbyLee)



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficbyLee/pseuds/Chad%20Warwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chad does some fantasizing about revenge after the latex fiasco and before his murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cell Block Tango

You really can’t go wrong with the classics. That’s why they’re classic. I’m sure you could say that I’ve watched Gone With the Wind and Psycho one too many times, but the plan came to me like a breath of sweet mint scented air. Or should I say plans? 

I thought of the way he’d laughed at me as I pulverized the mint leaves. I’d carefully picked them from the herb box on the porch, but I wasn’t being careful now. I was destroying them until there was nothing but a smear of green slime. I wished that Patrick was home, so I could make him a drink too. There was more than enough mint to cover the taste of any poison I might add to the mix. 

Visions of steam curling out of his ears as his eyes bugged out made me smile as I added the mint goop to the simple syrup and lime juice. I needed another drink, and another glass of wine was not about to cut it. The rum was whispering my name as I added it to the shaker and then poured it over ice. 

But no, poison would be too easily traced. If he was allergic to something, that would work, but he wasn’t. No helpful peanut allergies that I could take advantage of. It was a shame. My last boyfriend was allergic to peanuts and chicken of all things. It would have been so easy to accidentally serve him something with peanut oil, and then fail to be around to save him when his throat closed up. As usual I wasn’t lucky enough for that with Patrick. The only thing he was allergic to was good taste and fidelity. 

It was a shame. I closed my eyes as I took my first drink and pretended I was stepping over his body on my way to the study. Patrick was thrashing and clutching at his throat while he flopped around like a goldfish bits of broken glass sparkling on the tiles like stars in the sky. It would be lovely. 

That one would be harder to pin on me in the long run, but it still wouldn’t keep me out of jail. Going to jail was out of the question. I wasn’t made for jail. That fetish shop had me freaked out enough. The thought of ending up in jail terrified me; god knows what they’d do to me in there. I wasn’t tough enough for jail. Patrick could survive it. Hell he’d thrive there. If he killed me first, he could spend the rest of his days with a big dick in each end with a big smile on his face. 

“Yuck,” I grumbled as I stood at the bottom of the stairs. “It has to be an accident. Something that can’t possibly be blamed on me. It’s a shame that he wasn’t a cross dresser. It’d be easy to make sure that there was a bump in the carpet at the top of the stairs. Patrick could stand there at the top, his arms pinwheeling while he tried to catch his balance or learn to fly. I wasn’t sure which, and then he’d fall. His head would strike at least a trio of steps on the way down. He’d lay there on the beautiful parquet floors with one broken high heel and his skirt up around his waist. 

“Oh I like that one.” Except I also liked my entry hall, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit on my hands and knees trying to get the blood out of the rug and woodwork. Moira would help me of course, but it’d never feel right in here again. I also wasn’t sure that Patrick’s life insurance would cover all our debt, but it might.

“Better the basement.” Yes, that was a much better choice. I took a long drink and walked to the door to the cellar. I hated it down there, so I took a much bigger drink, guzzling half of what was left in my glass. There was more than enough sugar in the drink to give me a quick buzz and give me some courage. I pulled the door open, and I glanced down the stairs. It was clean now. We’d filled a pair of dumpsters to clear out all the nastiness that filled the rooms. It still smelled though. It stank like something died down there or something horrible lived there. I could never decide which.

“He had it coming,” I hummed, picturing the ladies of the Cellblock Tango hanging onto the walls. They were dressed in black leotards, as they strutted around the cold dank space. Velma Kelly herself winked at me as she told her story about her cheating husband and sister. 

I stopped at the bottom of the steps. The florescent lights that we’d hung lit up the cobwebs that reclaimed the rafters caught the light like tattered lace curtains. This was the last place I wanted to be. It felt like death. It scared me, but if Patrick was going to take a fall down the steps it should be these. It’d bother me less if his blood stained the concrete. 

“Chad!” I winced as I heard him shouting for me and the way he slammed the front door. One of these days he was going to break the stained glass, and then we’d be out a few hundred more dollars when I had to replace it. 

“What do you want?” I asked as I came back upstairs after finishing my mojito. I stashed the glass someplace where he wouldn’t see it before stepping into the hall. There was enough mint to hide the smell of rum on my breath if I let him get that close to me. 

“I’m sorry.” He looked at me from across the length of the hallway. It was twenty feet, but it might as well have been a mile. Apology or not we’d never be close again. He’d humiliated me. He’d belittled me. We were done. 

“That’s alright, Patrick. I understand.” I didn’t. I also didn’t care. “You can stay in the guestroom.” 

“But I said I was sorry.” He had that stupid little boy look in his face that used to work for me. He thought I’d forgive him. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” 

“You said a lot of things you shouldn’t have, Patrick. I understand, but I don’t forgive you. You can stay here, but I’m not speaking to you.” I slipped past him to walk up to the bedroom, pausing at the top of the stairs I looked down at him. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to stand to even look at you.” 

With that I turned on my heel and walked to the bedroom, closed and locked the door behind me. I sprawled onto the bed face down, clutching Patrick’s pillow in my arms and prayed that I could fall asleep.


End file.
